Mind Over Body
by dumpling47
Summary: Sherlock not eating is nothing new, but lately he's been looking positively starved, and John's starting to worry. Could there be more to Sherlock's condition than meets the eye? Johnlock.
1. Faint

_**Trigger warning:**__** eating disorders**_

* * *

"Sherlock ..."

I didn't know what to do or say. It pained me, seeing the ridiculously frail curve of his spine. It was odd, for one thing, on such a powerful presence, but was also quite alarming, seeing as we were together and I wanted what was best for him.

Namely, for him to get some damn sustenance in his system!

"John?" Sherlock reached down to the ground, retrieving his pants that he'd so haphazardly tossed there the night before. Soon enough, the pale backside was covered by shirt and dressing gown, though these items still couldn't hide how thin my flatmate was. "Coffee, shall we?" he suggested, smiling cynically and exiting the room.

I followed after him, feeling stressed. Sherlock Holmes had always been very thin - almost ridiculously so - but in recent weeks he'd been looking positively ethereal. It pained me deeply, more than I could ever dare admit. It was far too obvious, though, especially when I was touching him, feeling the sharp jut of his cheekbones and his bony backside. I knew that he constantly ignored his body for that massive brain of his, but surely, for my sake, he'd at least try a piece of toast or something?

Upon going downstairs, the coffee was ready, and though Sherlock had suggested it in the first place, he didn't drink any. He evidently noticed me staring at him, though.

"Problem?" he asked, arching a brow.

"What sort of problem would I have," I said expressionlessly.

"John, for God's sake, don't act like a child -"

"Me, acting like a child?" I snapped. "No, Sherlock, I think my frustration is quite understandable, actually. When's the last time you ate?" I glared in his general direction, feeling tears prick in my eyes. Today, oddly enough, Sherlock's dressing-gown was belted around his waist, which really was bugger for me, considering the fact that it only emphasized the frailty even more.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why do you care, John?" he said, placing a hand on his waif of a hip.

"Because I'm your friend, and I love you, and you've been looking like absolute shit lately." I noticed Sherlock's hurt expression, and quickly said, "No, not like that, you're always beautiful, you know, but - you obviously haven't been eating, and I was hoping you'd - well -"

Sherlock grabbed an extra coffee cup and filled it up, taking a very small sip. "Happy?" he demanded.

"Not in the slightest."

Sherlock stormed past me and went all fetal-position on the sofa, glaring at the wall. "Don't talk to me," he said irritably.

"Sherlock, I'm trying to help you ..."

"I cannot concentrate when I have a gut of food bouncing around in my stomach!" Sherlock snapped. "Maybe you don't realize that, John, and really, I envy you so much for that fact, but if you had any concept of me, my body -"

"There's some things that are true about all human anatomy!" I shouted back, knowing that doing so wasn't the answer, but continuing to do it anyway. How else was I supposed to get through to him!? "And the basic rule of survival, Sherlock, is that people need to eat. Especially _you_, dodging about London night and day - it requires energy, it requires -"

"That of which I get with the mental stimulation of the case," Sherlock grumbled, sprawling out and staring up at the ceiling.

"Fine. FINE!" I shot back. "I won't force you into anything, but don't come crying to me when you pass out from sheer exhaustion and malnourishment!"

"Oh, I assure you, I won't," he drawled, infuriating me all the further.

Needless to say, it took a supreme effort on my part to exit the area without further explosions.

* * *

I woke in the middle of the night to what sounded like somebody falling. I rushed into the loo to find what I'd somehow indirectly predicted earlier - Sherlock collapsed over the side of the bath, only half-conscious, sobs wracking his gaunt chest.

"Oh, God," I moaned, following with a string of expletives. "Oh, Sherlock ..."

I lifted him into my arms and brought him to our room, laying him down on the bed and smoothing a hand over his perspiring brow. His breathing (sobbing?) came in small, hiccuping gasps, as he clutched at my shirt for dear life.

"J-John - I'm so sorry -" he said, his voice cracking.

"Shh, Sherlock, just give me a second." I rushed into the bathroom, procuring a glass of water, and proceeding to help him drink. He sucked the cup down eagerly.

"Jesus, Sherlock, do I need to call the ambulance tonight, or will this be a lesson to you?" I said, half-scolding, half-comforting, as I pushed tangled black curls off of his forehead.

"I'll - I'll eat, I promise," Sherlock said, nuzzling his pillow. "I just - I can't, not now. I just need to sleep."

"I'm going to bring you a couple slices of bread," I said. "That's it, okay? Just eat that, and I'll let you sleep all you want."

"Okay."

Sherlock successfully polished off a full slice of bread before falling dead asleep. I rubbed his shoulders gently, listening to him let out small sighs of pleasure all the while.

"Oh, Sherlock," I said, a sob escaping my chest. "I wish you'd just listen to me, you know that?"

He didn't answer me, of course ... not that I was expecting him to.

* * *

Sherlock didn't move from bed the entire day, but after that, he was back on his feet again - albeit temporarily. Two nights after the first incident, Sherlock went sprawling, right in the shower, of all places, knocking down all the shampoo bottles and hitting his head rather roughly on the tile floor.

"Oh my God." I could barely breathe. Sherlock was struggling to lift himself up, only making it into my open arms before passing out again, naked and shivering.

"I need to call the ambulance," I remember mumbling to myself, over and over again. "The bloody ambulance! Dammit, Sherlock! Why does it have to be like this?"

I got him into his pyjamas just before the ambulance came. While I obviously wasn't happy about Sherlock being unconscious at the time, I think it made it much easier to load him into the vehicle. I can't imagine the fight he would've put up if he'd been the exact opposite of his current condition.

Mrs. Hudson was awake, crying into a handkerchief as I explained the details.

"I need to go visit him at hospital," I said, very quietly. Truth was, it was hard to admit to the circumstances, even to my landlady - or, rather, to myself.

To admit that Sherlock probably - no, _definitely_ - had an eating disorder, and needed serious help - that was the scariest thing of all.


	2. Explanation

They let me ride along inside the ambulance, which really shouldn't have bothered me (I was a doctor, and supposed to keep my head on straight in all things medical), except for, naturally, that this was my best friend who was hurting, perhaps close to death.

He looked so pale and childlike, hooked up to the transportable IV bags, strapped down to the bed. A couple nurses were bustling about, doing whatever they could.

"He's your friend," one of them said simply.

"Yes," I choked. "My best friend."

I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew for a fact that I couldn't loose him again. Not after Reichenbach - God, no. I needed Sherlock like I needed air, and to think that this had happened to _him_, of all people ... it was as terrifying as it was practically ludicrous.

Why couldn't he just take the time, every once in awhile, to eat, even if just to appease me? Surely I was missing something. When I'd originally started out as a doctor, I'd talked to many people who had troubles eating, and a majority of the cases boiled down to having a poor self-image, or to some rude comment(s) made to them by a friend or family member concerning their weight. But Sherlock ... no, that wasn't possible. If anything, this had happened because he'd been trying so damn hard to detach himself that he'd even gone so far as to disregard basic human needs.

But even machines needed fuel, I suppose.

We reached hospital in record time. Sherlock was wheeled out, and I trailed quickly behind, until I was detained by a doctor.

"What is it?" I practically snapped.

Turns out she just wanted to ask me my take on things, which I explained it the best I could - the events leading up to it all, how I had always been aware that something was up, etc., etc. She nodded, jotting it down as we walked.

"I'm so very sorry, Dr. Watson," she said, eyes lowered. "This is a very unfortunate situation - and especially startling, seeing as it's the detective Sherlock Holmes, of all people." She grimaced. "He never seemed the type for publicity, from what I've read in the papers on him, so we'll try our best to keep things rather quiet."

I thanked her adamantly for this, knowing that's what Sherlock would've preferred. Once my friend was all set in his room, the doctor (Stark) led me into the area in question.

Seeing him there, hooked up to all those IVs, pale as a ghost and practically sinking into the bedclothes, I couldn't help but let loose a sob. It wracked my entire body. Dr. Stark put a hand on my shoulder.

"He's my best friend," I repeated, stifling another cry. "And - I love him, so much. I just can't believe this has happened."

Stark nodded. "Naturally, Dr. Watson, we'll have to get him into recovery as soon as possible, but we'll also need to get a bit of an explanation, on his part, when he finally wakes up. We thought you could help us acquire this; surely he'll be more willing to talk to you than anybody."

I nodded. "How long will he be here?"

"That all depends on how well recovery goes. Hopefully not too long, though."

I could only pray that, no matter the length of time Sherlock was confined to that hospital bed, that he'd get what he needed - namely, all the help that could possibly be offered.

* * *

I was sitting at Sherlock's bedside when he awoke. There was a nurse on duty, sitting outside the door, but she didn't disturb us - not then, at least.

Sherlock's green eyes peered strikingly out from his malnourished face. When he caught sight of me, he did not smile, but his eyes softened a little.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"I suppose I ought to have listened to you," he said quietly, glancing down at his polka-dotted hospital gown. "Now look at me. And I'm not just talking of my atrocious attire."

Instinct told me to laugh, but I suppressed it. This situation was serious - not the time for idle jokes. "Sherlock, we really need to talk," I insisted.

I explain the recovery process that Dr. Stark had explained to me, and he nodded very seriously.

"I understand," he said, once I was finished.

"But ... Sherlock, while that's most important, we also need to talk about what made you do what you've being doing to your body for so long now. If we can address the problem head on, I think that would help things infinitely, especially where getting better is concerned."

"I must remain in control," Sherlock said quickly, by way of explanation. "Of every faculty of myself - especially my body, which is not as easily controlled as my mind. I must - I must discipline it, especially while on a case, and while, yes, eating does sometimes slow me down, a bigger reason for avoiding sustenance is so that I have complete maintenance over such an unpredictable thing." I nodded, understanding, but still completely flabbergasted that he was being so honest with me. "Can't you see, John?" he begged. "I _need_ to remain in control. I need it more than I need food - hell, more than I need air, if you'll forgive the rather idiotic saying. I don't know if you even realize how important it is to me."

"Sherlock," I said softly, "_Why?_ Why do you feel you must control yourself? Did - did something happen to you that -"

"I suppose you're expecting some tragic backstory," Sherlock said, very sarcastically.

"Sherlock."

"Well, there isn't one," he said, swallowing heavily. "It's just something I need: structure. Oh, the doctors want more than that? Tell them it was my father's death that did this to me. Tell them it was Mycroft's teasing as a child -"

"SHERLOCK!" I shouted. "This isn't a joking matter, okay!? This is your health we're discussing - your very _life_ - and while there may not be a story to go behind it, I won't just flippantly write off your eating disorder as being connected to some life event with no relation! Do you hear me!?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow - ever the git, even while sick in a hospital bed.

"I am sorry, John," he said, glancing down at his lap. "I'm so sorry."

I took him up very gently in my arms and kissed him warmly, still far too aware of the bony, delicate body I was holding onto for dear life. As if to make things worse, he shuddered.

"I don't know why this happened to me," he admitted, "Why I allowed this to happen, but I do, in fact, know why I can't be bothered to eat."

"Tell me, Sherlock," I said, touching a hand to his soft cheek.

"As you're aware, with a mind like mine, it's hard to relate to - to anybody, really," he said, his voice meek. "It's especially hard to see things clearly, when you're friendless and scoffed at, so you do everything in your power to maintain some semblance of control. Bodily management, if you will. I haven't been eating properly since I was - oh, I don't know, fourteen? Almost twenty years by now, though obviously it's gotten much worse. I haven't been feeling as in-control lately, I suppose."

"And why not?" I asked.

"Because - because I have you."

"Sherlock -"

"I'm not blaming you, John, God, no!" Sherlock coughed a little, his voice pained. "I just - when I'm with you ... I love you so very much. I'm a bit scared, I suppose, being in a relationship with such emotional gravity. It's my first one, after all. I must not give up my calculated, maintained nature, however, not even for something so important as -"

"It shouldn't be a roller-coaster ride, our relationship ... if that's what you're suggesting," I said adamantly. "You _always_ have me, Sherlock, always - and you know that! I'm not some flimsy thing that's going to up and leave you - or that you have to control yourself around, for that matter. For God's sake, you shouldn't abstain from eating because of _me_!"

"It's not because of you," Sherlock insisted.

"You're making it out to be just that," I responded, my voice expressionless.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock murmured, letting out a huge gasp - and before I knew it, he was genuinely crying - big, heavy tears trailing down his cadaverous cheeks. I touched a hand to the back of his head, inhaling the smell of his hair and all the while soothing him gently.

"I forgive you, Sherlock. I know it's hard to voice problems like these, especially when they're so complex." I took his face in both my hands and kissed him on the mouth warmly, passionately. "And in case you weren't aware, I love you so damn much. You're impossibly brilliant, talented, and beautiful, and I can't stand to see you wasting away like this. No matter what happens in the future, one thing will be for certain - we're going to get you better."

"T-thank you, John," Sherlock said shakily, returning the kiss.

None of what was happening then may have seemed beneficial to either party by the outside observer, but to us, this knowledge - as well as Sherlock's explanation - made all the sense in the world, and we, together, would do anything - _everything_ - to get him up to par again.


	3. Gone

Sherlock was at hospital for about a week, and truly was looking a bit better. He'd even eaten a little while there - and not intravenously, thank God.

Dr. Stark had prepared a sort of plan for Sherlock to get back on track. She said that the transition from barely eating to eating regularly could be an unnatural one, so she recommended dietary supplements and vegetable drinks to my friend - ones that could be downed in a matter of seconds. It was, after all, better than nothing.

For awhile, Sherlock was doing quite well, and I was beyond proud of him. He was taking his supplements every morning (all of them!) and downing at least two of the vegetables drinks a day. His cheeks were a more rosy red and his skin looked less translucent than it had a week previous. I couldn't even express how pleased I was.

"Are you feeling better, Sherlock?" I asked, one evening at Baker Street, after he'd downed a can of V8.

He nodded absentmindedly.

"If anything, Sherlock, you are probably helping your brain work even better," I said. "Tell me, do you _feel_ better? I want to know."

Sherlock didn't say anything, and that worried me.

"Sherlock - ?"

"John?"

"You're not ... you're not just doing this to please me, are you?"

"John, why would you say something like that?"

"I'm just - I'm worried, that's all," I said, hanging my head a little. "What if I were to, say, go to Dublin for the weekend? Would I find you back to - back to the way you were?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock paused. "_Do_ you have to go to Dublin?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I'm just worried - Dr. Stark said there should be someone watching you, making sure you're maintaining healthy habits ..."

"Relax, John, I'll be fine."

I sighed heavily. "I - I suppose you will be. When aren't you fine?"

I didn't mean it to sound bitter, but I suppose that's just how it came across. Sherlock arched a brow in my direction as I stepped glumly out of the room.

* * *

_**SHERLOCK'S POV:**_

* * *

John's gone.

Finally, I can avoid taking those blasted supplements! They taste disgusting, and while I suppose they give me energy, it's not really worth it, in my book. Old habits die hard, you know.

That's not the main problem, though. The problem is that I must discipline myself. I (believe it or not) like eating as much as the next person, but I must maintain some semblance of control - mind over matter, if you will. As in, no food until the case is solved. Then I allow myself to indulge a little.

There's something else, though - something I don't know if I could ever tell anyone, even John.

The fact of the matter is, I have a horrendously low self-image.

Perhaps that's why I act like an arrogant sod half the time. To make up for this general lack of confidence. I've never doubted my mind - that was the one thing I was sure of - but my mind was an engine, always thinking out new scenarios, new thought processes. It told me that if I ate anything, I would be dulled, stupid, gain massive amounts of weight, etc, etc. I know it's illogical, and I know I sound like one of those girls on telly - you know, the ones that have an eating disorder due precisely to the very same circumstances.

As soon as John is long gone, I run to the loo and am sick in the toilet, coughing up all the vegetable juice (or whatever the hell it was), along with the half-chewed supplements. I wipe at my mouth, bend over, and cry, long and hard.

But damn it, I hadn't taken precautions! Mrs. Hudson finds me, sprawled on the floor, panting, out of breath for God knows what reason. Bless her motherly soul, she takes me in her arms and rubs my back very gently. No one (besides John) has done this to me in ages. I snivel into her shoulder for another minute, allowing myself the small luxury of releasing emotion, if only for a moment. When I'm done, I look up, still holding to her tight.

"Sherlock, dear," she says, very softly, "I know this is hard. John told me to keep an eye on you - he thought something like this was bound to happen." She wiped her handkerchief over my tear-stained face. "He'll be back Sunday evening, you know that? You won't have to wait long."

It's Friday night. The wait is already practically unbearable.

"I'm going to make you my very special Shepherd's pie, alright, dear?" she says, smiling softly. "Let's just get you comfortable in your bed, and I'll serve you as though I were your housekeeper."

"That's very generous of you, Mrs. Hudson," I say, returning the smile. I stand up shakily and get situated in bed, staring up at the ceiling and counting my protruding ribs all the while. I remember I used to do that when I was younger, thinking that as long as I could touch them all, I'd succeeded at something. Once again - illogical - but I truly did like having the control of my faculties, as well as of my entire body.

That's all I am, really - a control freak, constantly putting up barriers so that I don't get hurt. Going so far as to control every aspect of myself, even to the point of starvation.

Why do I need this structure, anyway? I suppose there really is a tragic backstory. I've never felt adequate, really, and I've had several experiences as a boy that have made me rather rigid, that have caused me to question the importance of emotion, sexuality, and the value I place on others, among many other things. But that's a story for another time, and I shan't bore you with the details.

I lay there, thinking all this over for awhile. Mrs. Hudson comes up awhile later, a slice of the pie on a paper plate. I accept it, appreciating the gesture, if not the cooking.

"Thank you," I say, genuinely meaning it.

"Of course, Sherlock, dear. Anytime." She kisses me on the cheek, reminding me, once again, of a loving mother.

"I won't tell John about what happened tonight," she promises, "As long as you keep trying to get better."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm doing my best."

She nods, sitting at my bedside to make sure I finish the pie (there's no getting anything past that woman, I swear). I do so almost-eagerly, however, because really, when Mrs. Hudson cooks, it's just about the most delicious thing known to mankind, and that's hardly an exaggeration.

I thank her again, suddenly feeling quite sleepy. Once she leaves, I go back to staring up at the ceiling, my eyes drifting closed. I don't even bother counting my ribs this time. It's a stupid, childish practice, and for God's sake, I'm thirty-two years old now. I should be above such a thing.

A warm sensation tingles throughout my body; my food is digesting. I feel a bit sluggish, but all the same, I kind of like the numbing effect the process has on me.

For the first time in months, I don't feel like an inadequate bag of bones. For the first time in months, I feel true power - thanks to my landlady's cooking, of all things.

In other news, I really, truly, desperately miss John. I'm already counting down the minutes - no, _seconds_ - until he'll be home again, in my arms, helping me through this recovery process.

In that moment, I know for a fact that I'll try, for all those who care about me, if not for myself.

For Mrs. Hudson, for John. Because they don't deserve to have to worry about me, that's for sure.


	4. Constant

I returned from Dublin all in one piece, and Sherlock was beyond irritable. His hair hung limp and matted against his face, and his eyes had a sort of feral look in them.

"Sherlock," I demanded, "What's the matter?"

"I've gained a half stone," Sherlock said grouchily, glaring in my direction. "I hope you're happy."

"Well, of course I am!" I exclaimed, ignoring his haughty expression and tone. "That's - that's excellent. You're still almost a full stone underweight, though, so -"

Sherlock stamped his foot like a petulant child. "I'm going completely downhill, John! I'm going to be just a fat as Mycroft, before you know it."

"Mycroft's not even fat," I said, feeling irritable myself. I'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson in the hall; she'd said he'd been eating, but he wasn't happy with the results (I couldn't imagine why). "Sherlock?" I said suddenly.

"What."

"Why don't you want to get better? I don't understand." And really, I didn't. I felt as though I were missing something.

Sherlock looked pained. "John?"

"What is it?"

"Can I - can I tell you something private?"

"Of course, Sherlock." I sat down beside him on the sofa. "What's wrong?"

"I, well ..." Sherlock swallowed, and it looked as though it pained him. "I. Can't. Gain. Weight. I simply can't. Keeping my body ... under control - that's the only thing I've been able to do, really. I can't control anything else. I need to - I need to ..." he swallowed again. "I know, I know, I'm rambling. Well, do you want to know the truth of it? I think poorly of myself, and nothing in my life feels stable, so I _need _this - need it more than I need air. I need to feel some sense of power, of control. And keeping my weight in check is one of the few ways I can do that."

It was a lot to take in. My narcissistic best friend, with a low self-image? And then, of course, I couldn't help but wonder why Sherlock felt so unstable - though I suppose I'll never know what goes on in that head of his, not really.

"Sherlock," I said, practically begging, "If you need ... control, or a constant, or something ... I'm always, _always_ here. Starving yourself is never the answer, you hear me? It only causes trouble, and you know what?" I don't know what sparked the anger, but I remember telling him he was 'being damned selfish' by what he was doing.

"J-John!" Sherlock cried, his mouth wide.

"Well, you know you've always got me, don't you?"

"Of course!"

"So why do you feel so powerless, so incapable? I'm here to _help_ you, you ignorant sod!"

And with that, I stormed out of the room, unable to shake the feeling that I'd been wronged somehow.

* * *

That night, I slept in my old room, on the pull-out sofa. I certainly wasn't going to be sharing a bed with _him_ tonight - not when he cared so little for all that I had to offer him!

Unsurprisingly, he crept into my room that night, looking forlorn.

"John," he said throatily. "I'm sorry. But you have to understand - this has nothing to do with you. This is all me. My-my own personal weakness. You can't honestly think that I won't ever allow myself to lean on you."

"Sometimes it feels that way," I admitted. "Especially now. I just wish you'd open up to me. Tell me what's the matter."

"How can I make you understand?" Sherlock murmured. "I don't even truly understand it myself." He sighed heavily. "I suppose it's because I can't seem to relate to anyone, not in this world. I feel ... so alone, sometimes. Not when you're around, though, but when you were in Dublin, well -" he paused. "I felt like I was losing control again. Lost in a world of people that couldn't understand me. And they make me feel like a freak, like a complete kook, all because I see the world differently? Oh, I don't know!" he groaned. "The point being, I've never felt entirely comfortable in my own skin, not really. Not eating helps clear my mind, helps me think, helps me feel in control."

"Yeah, well, it also slowly kills you and upsets your friends," I said quietly.

"Oh, John." Sherlock scooted in close as I sat up straight, and we leaned into each other. "I realize that I need help. I'm-I'm willing to take your advice."

"You're already moving in the right direction, you know that? That half stone! I'm so proud!"

I meant it completely. Sherlock smiled to himself.

"I did it for you, John."

"I don't want you to do it just for me. I want you to do it for yourself." I thought for a moment. "I also want you to see Dr. Stark, at least twice a week, until you're a bit better. You need to talk to an outside source, get advice."

"Rubbish," Sherlock insisted.

"No, trust me, it's helpful," I said, thinking of my own therapist. "You might not be able to completely express what you're feeling, but getting it out there that you're feeling _something_, and that you want to get better ... sometimes that's more than enough."

Sherlock touched his lips to my hair, inhaling deeply. I shivered.

"I'll do it, John," he said. "For you, as well as for myself. Even at the expense of my pride."

"Pride be damned, this is more important," I said. We both broke into shaky laughter.

It was a big step Sherlock had made, agreeing to see Dr. Stark, and I silently congratulated him for it. As an added bonus, I let him sleep with me that night, even though it was a tight fit. Neither of us felt the temptation to move, though, not really, even on that blasted sofa.

As long as we were together, solving problems side by side, it was enough.


	5. Recovery

Eventually, I got through to him. He started going to Dr. Stark - if only for diet advice, if not for that of the emotional nature. I was so proud that whenever he got back to Baker Street (looking much better each time, I might add), I had a hard time saying no to him for anything, really.

During his last session, Sherlock returned home with good news: his bone marrow was infinitely less brittle, and he no longer had to take all the health supplements. Besides that, he had been looking so much better - his skin was much more of a peachy hue, his features sharp but less severe. He was still perhaps a half stone underweight, but he hadn't been much heavier when I'd met him for the first time. As far as I could tell, he was looking better than he'd looked in months. All in all, Dr. Stark saw no reason to continue the sessions if he kept improving.

"Isn't that wonderful, John?" he said, a small gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"Yes, it's amazing, Sherlock," I said, kissing him warmly. "In fact, I think I ought to reward you ..."

We barely made it to the bedroom before I had him up against the wall. Both Sherlock and I were feeling almost aggressive in our passion, due in part to the former's progress as well as to the fact that, well, we loved each other, of course. I pulled apart for a moment, gazing up at my friend.

"You didn't used to do this, not when I was all thin," Sherlock muttered. "I suppose you were unconsciously abstaining, John - in order to get me to pull my act together?"

"You're overanalyzing it," I said with a laugh. "I was so focused on making you healthy that I doubt lovemaking crossed my mind."

"I suppose it crosses your mind now?"

"Most definitely."

Before I could get my bearings, Sherlock had pulled off my clothes and had me on the bed - and was on top of me, for once. I could still feel the sharp press of his ribcage, but it was quite obvious that he was doing much better than he had been before he'd been admitted into A&E. He certainly had less inhibition where the sex was concerned, whereas he'd seemed much more careful in his formerly fragile state.

I'd finally worked my way on top of him when I felt the salty tears against my cheek. I wasn't even sure who they belonged to, really, but I knew they were tears of joy. I smiled against the taste and traced my lips along Sherlock's jaw, inhaling his scent. He smelt like the Baker Street fireplace. He smelt like home.

"It's all thanks to you, John," Sherlock murmured throatily against my ear. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"I motivated, you did all the dirty work." I paused for a moment, gazing into his eyes and proceeding to take in his entire body - his strong limbs, his full lips, his broadening chest. He certainly had made a supreme effort to get better, and it had worked.

"I'm not fooling myself, though," Sherlock said, suddenly dark. "I could relapse."

"I suppose that's always something to be prepared for. A possibility, but an unlikely one, okay?"

"Okay." It was as though it didn't even have to be debated. We had acknowledged the possibility, but we weren't going to let anything near a relapse happen. We'd catch it before it got bad. I would advise, Sherlock would listen. Or something like that.

"Sherlock?" I asked suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Do you still - think poorly of yourself? Because you shouldn't, you know. You can be a downright arse most of the time, but you're brilliant, and you're beautiful, and I never want you to change, physically or otherwise, alright?"

Sherlock made a sort of whimpering noise, as though he were holding back a sob in his throat. I clung to him tight, inhaling his warmth again. "I mean it."

"I know you do," he said, his voice shaking. "And you know what, John? With you, I've never truly felt - the way I've felt before. Low on myself, I mean. I've felt that way for almost two decades, but with you, well, I sort of feel like I mean something."

I shoved his face into the pillow, and he let out a muffled cry. "You imbecile, of _course_ you mean something!" I cried. "You're more than something. You're my entire universe, you hear me? And you know what? I'm just saying I'd hate to see the center of my world collapse in on itself! So do me a favor, and, well ... don't just do this ... don't just think well of yourself for me. Do it for _you_."

He arched a skeptical brow.

"I'm serious, Sherlock!" I said adamantly.

"Yes, John, I know," Sherlock said, positively beaming. "I'm just drinking in the boost to my ego, that of which you never fail to provide, even when you're insulting me."

I shoved his face into the pillow again, watching him flail out in a pathetic attempt to get free. Once he resurfaced, he pecked me demurely on the nose.

"Thank you, John," he said. "I've come a long way, and at the risk of sounding like something on telly, you're my entire universe, too."

I didn't know what to say, but I don't suppose words were necessary in such a situation. We snuggled close together, appreciating each other for everything the other had to offer. It didn't matter if it was like something on telly. As far as I was concerned, everything that had happened those past few months was real and raw, and I don't know if I'd have traded it for anything. It had brought us so far along in our relationship, after all, and I (as well as Sherlock, I'm sure) never planned on looking back.


End file.
